A Moment in Time

by Bertrice Small

  Wynne considered and then shook her head. "It matters not," she said, dismissing his query airily. "I love you, Madoc, and that is what is important to me. What was between us is a time long gone. It is now that I care about."

  "Nay," he said. "You must remember, Wynne. If you love me, you must remember for my sake, if not your own."

  "Then help me, Madoc! Help me to remember what I must for both our sakes! For the sakes of the children I will surely bear you!" Then she smiled. "Perhaps we just need a little more time, Madoc. After all, this is the first time we have made love, at least in this life." She smiled mischievously at him. "I think we need to make love again and probably yet again before I will begin to remember."

  He laughed. "You are a vixen, I vow, my adorable dearling! You may be correct though." He cupped a small breast within the palm of his hand and fondled it teasingly.

  "I will do whatever my lord commands," she replied in dulcet tones, and turned her face up to his for a kiss.

  PART 2

  THE LADY OF RAVEN’S ROCK

  WALES, 1061

  Deep is your longing for the land of your memories and the dwelling place of your greater desires

  Kahlil Gibran

  The Prophet

  Chapter 7

  In introducing Wynne to lovemaking, Madoc had opened a whole new world for her. It was a world in which she was completely comfortable. It was a world that she enjoyed more fully than he would have thought possible. She was an apt pupil in the arts of Eros. Indeed, she wanted to give him as much pleasure as he was giving her. As each day passed he could see her genuine love for him growing, along with her passion for him. That knowledge tore at Madoc, for despite all Wynne strove to give him, it would not be enough unless she could remember that fatal moment in time that had set the course of their mutual destinies.

  January passed. Then February. In mid-March the springtime burst upon them and the hills were bright with colorful blooms. Wynne sensed his rising despair. "I did not come to Raven's Rock to make you unhappy, Madoc," she told him one evening as they lay together. "I came to be your cherished wife. Yet my very presence, for all our passion, breaks your heart. I can bear no more of it, my love!" She pushed back an errant lock of her raven's black hair. Her face was even paler than usual. "I have tried to remember, but I cannot! It is as if something is preventing me and I know not why. You cannot tell me what it is that binds us together you say; but I must still know if we are to be happy. Help me, Madoc! Help me to remember that other time since I seem so unable to do so myself.

  Madoc sighed deeply and then he looked up into her beautiful face. "I will blend a special packet of herbs for you, dearling. When you are ready to make your journey in time, Wynne, mix them in a goblet of wine and drink it down. You will fall into a deep sleep. The herbs in the wine will free your mind to remember that past which you and I shared. The wine will relax you so that you have no fear."

  "Have we not shared more than one past together, Madoc?" she gently pressed him. Now that her decision was made, some deeper instinct was stirring within her.

  He nodded in the affirmative. "We have."

  "Why now and not before?" she wondered aloud.

  "God has a great sense of both justice and humor, Wynne. The timing was never quite right. This is the first time we have been lovers since then."

  She nodded and then asked him, "How can I be certain that I will remember that particular life which seems to trouble you so greatly?"

  "Because that is the life that you wish to remember, dearling," he told her. "That is the door which will open for you. It is as simple as that."

  "How long will I sleep, my lord?" She pushed nervously at her hair again.

  "A few hours. A few days," he told her quietly. "It depends upon how much you choose to remember."

  "I would know everything, Madoc," she told him resolutely. "Though I believe the past is best left behind, I can see that the pain of that past will not leave you until I have relived it, though I do not understand why. Still, I will do it for you because I love you! I want us to get on with the lives we now live. There is so much ahead for us to share, my love!"

  "Pray God you are right, Wynne!" he cried wholeheartedly and, reaching up, he drew her down into his gentle embrace.

  She snuggled against him for a moment and then said, "I will not get lost in time, Madoc, will I?" It seemed to be her one great fear.

  "Nay, darling," he promised her. "You will only sleep. Your lovely body will remain precisely where you lay it down. You will awaken when you choose to awaken. You need have no terrors over it."

  "Is there anything else that I need to know?" she fretted.

  "Nothing." He paused and finally said, "When do you wish to do this thing?"

  "Not for a few days' time, but blend your herbs, Madoc, for there will come one moment in which I shall be braver than in any other moment. It is then I will depart on this adventure, so be prepared."

  He seemed relieved by her answer, a fact that Wynne found intriguing. Her curiosity was now more aroused than it had been before. He loved her. Of that Wynne had no doubt. Yet despite his love for her, despite that undeniable fact, Madoc was suddenly showing signs of fear; he obviously wanted her to go upon this journey in time. What was it that she would learn? It was a puzzle that was beginning to fascinate her more now than it had before.

  During the next few days Wynne rested and studied with Madoc in his high tower chamber. His knowledge of ancient Celtic medicine simply astounded her, and he willingly passed on to her a great deal of this valuable knowledge. It was unfortunate that some of that lore would be useless to her because many of the ingredients, once so easily available for the taking, could no longer be found growing. They had simply disappeared. They were irreplaceable, of course, because no one knew with what to replace them in the formulae.

  Once there had been a special parasitic mistletoe that grew only upon the sacred oaks so beloved of the Celts. It had been used for healing serious cancers, but the mistletoe now available was not the same plant that had been used in those long gone days. That particular growth, Madoc told her, had been lost along with their sacred hosts when the Romans, and those other conquerors of the island of Britain who followed after them, viciously destroyed the oaks in an effort to wipe out the Celtic culture.

  Madoc would have taught Wynne certain forms of spells and bindings, but she would not let him. His special knowledge was a great temptation that she feared she might be unable to control. Wynne knew that if she had Madoc's knowledge of sorcery, no matter her good intentions, she might one day lose her temper and do a harm she might later regret and be unable to undo. She remembered a fairy tale her grandmother used to tell about an unhappy queen, stepmother to four beautiful children, the three sons and the daughter of a king called Lir. Jealous, the queen had used her knowledge of magic to turn the children into swans. Quickly regretting her hasty actions, the queen found she could not undo her spell, and her husband died brokenhearted.

  There were other dangers in Madoc's knowledge. It made his neighbors and those who did not know him well fearful of him. If her own learning extended too far past mere medicine, and word of it got out, which it always did, she might attract the attention of those who would seek to use and control her for their own wicked purposes. As it was, there were some, particularly in the Church, who would feel her knowledge was too great for a woman. Women like that were always a danger. She had the children she would bear Madoc to consider. She must walk a fine line.

  The weather had turned warm, perhaps too warm for late March. Wynne fretted that there would be no flowering branches with which to decorate the Great Hall of Raven's Rock when their wedding day arrived. She grumbled about this to Madoc as they rode out over the hills one afternoon, and he laughed.

  "The warmth is but a brief thing, dearling. It will storm by nightfall and turn cool, I promise. There will be more than enough flowers and flowering branches when May first arrives," he assured her.<
br />
  "If it gets too cold the buds will be frosted and ruined," she grumbled.

  "There will be no frost," he replied.

  "You are certain?" she demanded.

  "I am," he chuckled. "Like Nesta, I am sensitive to the weather. It will rain for the next few days, I promise you."

  "Then perhaps tonight," Wynne told him, "I will begin my journey in time."

  "So soon, my dearling?" His blue eyes bespoke his distress.

  "Madoc," Wynne said in the severe tone of a mother reasoning with an unruly child, "You want me to go, and then you do not want me to go! I no longer care! I do this for you. Tell me yea or nay, now! Then we will have no more of it!"

  "You must go," he finally agreed, "though I fear your return even more than your going."

  Wynne reached out and took his hand in hers. "I love you, Madoc of Powys. What has been done is done for me. It is the present and the future that I love and reach out for; not a past that seems to haunt you so."

  "I pray it be so, dearling," he said squeezing her hand.

  "Though I must do this alone, Madoc, I ask of one thing of you," Wynne said softly.

  "Anything!" he vowed.

  "Be there when I awaken, my lord. Let your dear face be the first thing that I see when my eyes open once again upon this time and this place," she replied.

  "I will be there, my love! I swear it!" he told her, and she was startled to see tears in his beautiful blue eyes.

  Wynne reached out and touched his face with her hand, comforting him as best she could. Though the past meant nothing to her now, she had to learn the truth of what had once been between them for both their sakes. The sadness his face had taken on unnerved her. What was so awful that he feared for her to know it, and yet insisted that she did? "Let us hurry home, my lord, for I feel my nerve beginning to waver, yet go on this journey in time I must!"

  When they returned to Raven's Rock, Wynne kissed Madoc in such a way that he knew she was saying her farewell to him. He could not remain within their apartments, and fled to his tower for comfort. Megan had prepared her mistress's bath, and Wynne bathed quickly, donning a soft silk chamber robe in her favorite grass-green, which was lined in an equally soft rabbit's fur. Megan was instructed to pour her lady a goblet of sweet wine. Wynne mixed Madoc's herbs into it.

  "Go to my lord, Megan," Wynne told the girl, "and say that I have taken his sleeping mixture. When I awaken I shall know all. Remind him also of his promise to me." Then lifting the goblet, Wynne immediately drained it. She handed the vessel to Megan and lay back upon her pillows.

  Almost at once her eyes felt abnormally heavy. Her entire being seemed to be sinking, but before she could even consider being fearful, Wynne fell into a deep slumber. She felt as if she were falling, falling, falling; and yet there was now a weightlessness to her body. She wanted to open her eyes, but she could not. There was no sound. It was as if she floated within a great nothingness. I want to know! she thought desperately. I must know what it is that binds me to, yet separates me from Madoc! I must know!

  Then suddenly above her a raven cried. Remember! Remember! About her a faint mauve mist blew like pieces of shredded silk gauze, obscuring her vision. Then all at once the mists were gone. Wynne found herself in a thick woods. A voice was calling to her, and yet it was not she who answered-or was it? She could feel her own life force ebbing, even as another life force surged forward; but she was not afraid.

  "Rhiannon! Rhiannon, where are you?!"

  "Over here, Angharad. Oh, come and look! Do come!"

  Angharad, catching sight of her elder sister at last, prodded her mount through the trees to the edge of the dark green and gold forest where Rhiannon sat upon her own horse, peering intently through the trees. "What is so interesting that you would not answer me?" she demanded. Though younger than her sister, Angharad had always felt older, wiser, and protective of her beauteous elder sibling.

  Rhiannon pointed with a slender finger.

  Sapphire-blue eyes followed her sister's delicate direction. Angharad stared for a moment, and then she said in a disappointed tone, "It is only a party of Cymri huntsmen, Rhiannon. There is nothing particularly fascinating about them."

  "Not all of them, silly," Rhiannon admonished her sister. "Him! Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed. Is he not the most beautiful creature that you have ever seen in all of your existence?"

  Angharad looked again and, seeing nothing she thought unusual, she wrinkled her pretty nose. "He is Cymri," she repeated, as if that explanation should be enough for her sister's understanding.

  "Ohhh, look!" the besotted Rhiannon cried out. "He is dancing upon the mound! Is he not amusing, sister?"

  "He's drunk with mead," replied Angharad pointedly, "or else he would not dare to do it. The Cymri believe that those mounds are entries into the worlds below the earth. What foolish beings they are. I've heard it said that they think if they tread even accidentally upon those grassy hillocks that they will invite enchantment. What silliness!"

  "Pwyll," called one of the huntsmen to the dancer. "Come down off that damned mound! Are ye courting trouble then, man? Ye'll bring a curse upon us all!"

  “ 'Tis naught but superstitious nonsense," laughed Pwyll bravely. "Come and join me, Taran! Or is the victorious warrior of a hundred battles afraid of the fairies?"

  "I am not afraid of the fairies," laughed Taran good-naturedly, "but I'm also not drunk enough to be foolish."

  From her hiding place Rhiannon's eyes twinkled mischievously and she giggled. Turning to her younger sister, she said, "I think that the beautiful Prince of Dyfed lacks a proper respect, Angharad. Perhaps I can instill it in him."

  "What are you going to do, Rhiannon?" demanded Angharad. "The Cymri are best avoided."

  "Stay right where you are, little one. As your elder, I am responsible for you. You may watch me, however," came the gay reply as Rhiannon moved her horse forward out of the shelter of the trees. She spurred her mount gently forward into the clearing where the men were gathered, but the creature's dainty hooves made no sound as they touched the ground.

  Taran saw her first as she appeared from amid the tangle of woods that surrounded the little area where he and his companions had stopped to eat and drink. His mouth fell open with surprise. Speechless, he could do nothing more than raise a hand and point. Amazed that their usually voluble companion had been rendered silent, Pwyll and the others followed the direction of that shaking finger to find themselves equally stunned.

  At first they were not even certain what it was they saw glittering and shimmering as it came toward them. Was it some trick of the light amid the delicate leaves of the golden beech trees and the sturdier quivering branches of the deep green pines? Was it their half-drunken state that made them imagine that they were seeing something? Was it magic of some sort that they were witnessing? Then gradually their confused eyes perceived a young girl upon her horse.

  There wasn't a man in that clearing who did not think that the girl was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. A tall, slender maiden with a serene face, mounted upon a dainty black mare with an elegant high step, whose bejeweled red leather bridle tinkled with the sound of tiny silver bells. The girl's heart-shaped face was framed by a mass of thick hair which seemed to be spun of gold and silver mixed together. It poured down her back in a rippling wave, spreading itself out over the shining dark flanks of the horse. Her gown was a pearlescent garment that appeared to have been spun from cobwebs and moonbeams. It floated about her. Her beautiful, delicate hands with their slender, bejeweled fingers rested quietly upon the reins. She seemed to be almost one with her mare. Eyes focused ahead of her on some unseen path, she did not once look toward the huntsmen as she trotted by and vanished on the opposite side of the clearing into the forest as silently and as mysteriously as she had come forth from it.

  Open-mouthed, they stared after her. Then Pwyll managed to recover and called to a young huntsman, "Gwyr! Follow her! Quickly! I would know who that lady is, an
d where she goes."

  Galvanized into action by the sound of Pwyll's voice, the young huntsman raced to his horse and dashed off after the beautiful girl.

  As they watched him go, Taran said, "I think we may have seen some magical creature from another realm, my lord. Perhaps you should not have danced upon the mound."

  "Aye, 'tis magic we have seen this afternoon, my lord," spoke up another of the prince's friends, Evan ap Rhys. "I hope you have not offended one of the Fair Folk."

  "The Fair Folk are not to be feared," Pwyll tried to reassure his men. "They are our friends."

  "They are different from us, Pwyll," replied Taran. "Oh, I know you have had dealings with them before and all has been well; but none of us knows where they live, or even how they live. They simply appear and disappear at will. They are prosperous, and yet do any of us know how they come by their wealth? Such lack of knowledge makes me uncomfortable with the Fair Folk."

  "Have you ever known the Fair Folk to do anyone a serious harm?" Pwyll countered.

  Taran shook his head. "Nay," he admitted, "I have not."

  " 'Tis more than we can say for our more familiar neighbors," Evan ap Rhys muttered.

  The huntsmen returned home, and later that evening, as they feasted in Pwyll's hall, Gwyr arrived tired, dirty, and soaked through with the rain which was now falling outside. The young man was given a juicy piece of venison on a trencher of bread and a goblet of wine. His companions waited politely for him to finish his meal, that they might learn of his adventure.

  Finally restored, Gwyr put down his goblet and said to Pwyll, "I regret, my lord prince, that I could not catch up with the lady."